Wednesday, August 15, 2001 It's a hard life being a 26-year-old England fan. I'm not looking for sympathy, just some understanding. It's particularly hard when it took until the age of 13 to fall in love with the game. That was 1988, and I'm still cursing the timing.

Cut to the winter of 1986-87...Botham's bleach-blond hundred at Brisbane, Gladstone Small's Melbourne moment in the sun, Allan Lamb's hair-raising 18 off Bruce Reid...those moments will never be more than secondhand history to me. In 1988 this didn't seem to matter. The Aussies would be back next summer for another whipping. Well, we're in a new millennium now, and that whipping, like Godot, has yet to show up.

For my generation, politics meant only one woman, while cricket seemed to be all about three men: Allan Border, Mark Taylor and now Steve Waugh, all of them put on Earth to dash English hopes. As one Ashes series after another went Australia's way, so I grew from naive teenager to weary old twentysomething. The memories stain the mind's eye. 1989 (family camping holiday, France): Geoff Marsh and Mark Taylor bat for a whole day at Trent Bridge. 1990-91 (radio under duvet avoiding revision for GCSE mocks): Lamb lbw b Alderman 14 at Brisbane, then capitulation. 1993 (trying to keep mind clear for A-levels): Mike Atherton run out 99 at Lord's. 1994-95 (beered up in the TV room at university): Michael Slater hammers DeFreitas's first ball of the series for four. 1997 (year abroad in Germany): Australia win three Tests in a row, and I've since forgotten the details. 1998-99 (late-night apoplexy at Sports Cafe): Slater is run out at Sydney, er, no he isn't, and Australia win again. 2001 (web reporter struggling to maintain impartiality): the swiftest surrender of the lot.

That's 12 long years defined by an increasingly irrational hatred of the words "Ozzie, Ozzie, Ozzie, Oi, Oi, Oi". (Breathe in, breathe out, it's only a song).

So, how do you cope with one humiliation after another? I've tried various tactics over the years. One revolves around telling myself that it's only a game, that the Aussies take their sport far too seriously - both of which are true. But that theory usually lasts as long as it takes Glenn McGrath to dispose of Athers, by which time I'm suddenly taking things far too seriously myself. Another technique is to talk down England's chances in advance, thus preparing yourself for the worst. But that one didn't work this time, because England had actually been quite good for a year before the Aussies arrived. Then there's the head-in-the-sand approach, whereby an impending loss is greeted with a change of channels. But now I write about the game, and have to watch everything closely, including the last rites. The fact is, I wouldn't be writing this piece if I didn't care, and it's pointless pretending otherwise.

So would I rather be Australian? The thought has occurred to me in darker moments over the years, but I always struggle back on to my moral high horse and then ride headlong into more punishment. Besides, if I hadn't been an England fan, think what I would be lacking now. Humility for one thing. And magnanimity. Perspective. And of course good old gallows humour. The Aussies clearly have none of these, and look where it's got them.

Like I said, cricket's only a game. I just wish we could beat Australia at it, that's all.

Lawrence Booth is assistant editor of Wisden.com

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